On Selfishness

and women who write

Friends,

Although I can’t remember where I was headed, or where I was coming from, I remember sitting inside an airplane, re-evaluating my life. I was roughly “the age of grief” (35 in that Jane Smiley novella). I had recently left New York City for Mexico and time on my tourist visa was dwindling. I was illegally subletting my Brooklyn apartment. I was straddling the border, one foot in each country.

In Mexico, I lived with a man, but not one from whom I expected much. He was a painter who sometimes wore mismatched shoes, not to be stylish but because he was drunk. Our push and pull and up and down mainlined anxiety into my veins. Sometimes I felt high on those jitters, but mostly I was exhausted. The upside was, I had no one to factor into my decisions. I had the luxurious freedom to wander down any path I chose.